But I Didn't Care
by Inscribson
Summary: Traces the path one F. Horn Trumpet Sax Mellophone bookworm became a cutter scratcher got involved with self injury and the love of the fluid of life.
1. Chapter 1

**Am I someone you know? Do I have a striking resemblance to your best friend...neighbor...archenemy...section leader? Am I who you think I am, or are you who I hope you aren't?**

They don't understand my mind. It's painfully clear to me in every interaction with them. My speech patterns confuse, my mannerisms draw strange looks, hell, even the way I choose to move leaves looks and actions from others that show our separation.

I've never fit in. I remember in first grade, I was the one who brought their baby blanket to school for show and tell. I couldn't read very well, although I knew my ABC's forwards, backwards, and by intervals of thirds, fifths, and minor sevenths.

It started to change, though, once my teacher spent time with me, showing me how to sound out the letters _within_ the words.

Feeling inadequate, although I at that time knew not what it was, I struggled to read everything I could lay my hands on, soon passing the level of my peers. But I didn't care.

I had discovered my inclination towards defensive reading - after all, my father had divorced my mom when I was six/seven (?). I was being raised by my grandparents, although I was in legal custody of my mother. She was away at college, getting a degree in nursing, while I was raised by the television and my manipulative grandma.

We lived out in the country, so I had no friends nearby to play with. Well, I take that back, there were two kids, but the youngest was eight years my senior. Another instance of my being separated.

By the time I was in fourth grade, I was at an eighth grade reading level. But my skills in spelling, math, and grammar were horrible! I confounded my teachers, mother and grandparents. But I didn't care. I only liked to escape into the stories of Reading and History.

In fourth grade, I also learnt that I was not an athlete in any way, shape, or form. I also learnt that I couldn't cartwheel, quarter-squat, or wrestle. I did care that time. Because wrestling was a Challenge, one I had to beat to be equal with, no, _better__ than_, my peers. But I wasn't made for any form of sport, no matter what my mother said when she enrolled me in softball from first to seventh grade.


	2. Chapter 2

You know that one trumpet player. The one who thinks he's the Brass Gods' gift to all other brass players? That was me. Whenever I picked up an instrument, I believed myself to be the best thing that ever happened in the musical world.

Of course, when I learnt the trumpet – my first instrument and first love – I could barely make a fart noise or even buzz properly. I tried to play it like a freakin' kazoo. That didn't work, obviously.

I believe that I really sucked at that time. I knew it, too. But I didn't care how bad I was. Music was a Challenge. Not like math, not like science or grammar or spelling. Music made sense to me.

I'm not saying it just clicked, because that'd be a downright lie. Worse than a lie! It'd be beyond description, even by me!

But music was a Challenge I could face, could overcome. I never learnt to properly tongue until ninth grade and I had the range of a tuba with asthma. But I didn't care.

I soon learnt all the early songs in the Red Book – you know, the Standard of Excellence book that every little fifth-grader gets – Hot Cross Buns, Twinkle Twinkle, Good King Wenceslas...I started going ahead, memorizing my fingerings the fastest way I could. I started to do my scale, just fingering it, wherever I went, no matter what. As the trumpet is a one-handed instrument, I really didn't draw any attention. I even started practicing with my left hand, out of curiosity spawned from a conversation in band class, where the other trumpets were thinking of all the fun ways to hold and play their horns.

I actually started to work hard on that, thinking that maybe, just maybe, if I could do something they'd only absently thought of, I could get their respect. Get higher up in the class ranks of respect.

A few weeks later I switched hands in the middle of a song, switched back, then went to my left hand again.

They paid me no notice.

You know, that time, I _did_care.


End file.
